


But At What Cost?

by alex_wh0



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: A little angst, Allusions to Violence, Ichirou comes to collect, Knives, M/M, NEIL BEING NEIL, Neil being a martyr, Neil sassy Josten, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24372451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_wh0/pseuds/alex_wh0
Summary: Neil’s deal with Ichirou requires extra bargaining. He now owes the Moriyamas three unspecified favors in exchange for his, Kevin's and Jean's lives. Neil is told that when he is called to collect, he had better do what he’s told—or he will pay for it in blood.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 17
Kudos: 219





	But At What Cost?

**Author's Note:**

> So [@nightquills](https://twitter.com/nightquills/) gave me this fantastic [prompt](https://twitter.com/nightquills/status/1253401443551363074/) and I ran with it. 
> 
> While there's no actual descriptions of violence, there are mentions of it here and there. 
> 
> Quills, I hope you like this! I kinda tweaked your original idea to fit this narrative.
> 
> Y'all come tell me if you liked it or not in the comments. xx As always, I'm on [Tumblr](https://alex-wh0.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/alex_wh0) if you want to say hi!

_Once a Wesninski, always a Wesninski_ , his father had told him once, while slapping him hard across the face. He was five.

“ _Nathaniel, look at me_ ,” he had said, a knife held tight to the column of his semi-ravaged throat, “ _what are you_?” Neil had sobbed, in fear, in pain, and received a burn mark for his efforts. He was six. He learned not to cry again.

Lola Malcolm taught him how to pick a knife, showed him the right way to wield it, taught him that the cruelty was not effective when it came from the knife alone. “ _Feel it here, kid, here_ ,” she had said, jabbing his chest, right above his heart. “ _You’ve got to feel it_ ,” she had said over and over again that he could recite it in his sleep. He was eight.

At nine, they put him to work on animals. He learnt the weight of a knife in his hands; its heft and the way the smooth metal came alive for him. He learnt to not make mistakes. Every success was a scar not earned. Neil Josten was a smart learner.

His mother taught him to use a semi-automatic. She had pressed a Glock into his tiny hands and showed him how to pull the trigger. “ _Keep it with you. Always, Nathaniel, always_ ,” she had said, voice frantic, eyes roving over his face in consternation. He was eleven.

“Always, mother, always,” he told his reflection now.

He touched the three knives Andrew had given him after he had graduated. “ _Keep them. Renee wouldn’t mind. She says she prefers you safe, not sorry_ ,” Andrew had told him, gaze fixed firmly on his armbands as he slipped the knives into their sheaths. What he meant was “ _I prefer you safe, not sorry_ ” but Neil understood anyway. He was 22.

Now, at 24, he stared back at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyeing the scars littering his face, the auburn hair and the shards of ice that were his eyes, and made a decision.

\-------------------------------------

“Sir, you will have to leave your weapons here,” a man in a suit told Neil at the fourth door he encountered after entering the building.

Neil held his hands up. “I don’t have any.”

Suit-face looked at him dubiously. “I will have to pat you down in that case.”

Neil slanted a look at him. “No,” he said quietly. “You will not touch me.”

The man who had escorted him from his house shifted from one foot to the other. “Mr. Josten.”

Neil turned, “Yes, Marcus.”

“It won’t take too long.”

Neil shook his head. “No.”

Marcus and suit-face shared a look and then Marcus steered Neil to a couch.

“Wait here,” he said and disappeared through a door on his left.

Neil waited. He didn’t fidget.

Half-an-hour went past like a fever dream.

And then it was 45 minutes.

One hour slipped by.

Neil didn’t move.

He could be patient when he wanted to.

“Mr. Josten, he will see you now.”

Neil looked up and smiled – a flash of danger here one minute, gone the next. “Thank you, Marcus.”

The man looked momentarily blindsided and then gave Neil a curt nod before leading the way.

\-------------------------------------

Two days. Or two days, four hours and fifty seven minutes, if you wanted to be precise about it.

Exit strategies were a speciality of Neil Josten’s. On a regular day, he would be able to tell you the number of exits your house had, or the best way to jump out of a fourth-floor window without breaking your knees, or the best way to hide yourself in plain sight. Under some amount of duress, he would even tell you the ways in which a body can be disposed of without any trace or the ways in which a disguise would hold under intense scrutiny. If he was in a particularly good mood, he would teach you to defend yourself. And sometimes, in the twilight space between dawn and morning, he would mumble about how wrist movement was crucial to throwing a knife.

But above all, Neil Josten was trained to look out for anomalies. He knew how to pick out something odd from among the mundane. He could sniff out danger through a combination of common sense and razor-sharp observation. Different did not equal good in his world and coincidences merely did not exist.

Which is why, clutching a subway pole at 10:43pm on a weeknight, Neil had cursed himself for not being able to blend in anywhere. He frowned down at the orange fox hoodie he was wearing, and only heard his mother urgently whispering at him to pick out clothes that didn’t stand out.

“ _Always, Nathaniel, do you understand. The more faded it is, the better. Do you hear me? Answer me._ ”

Neil flinched. The panic engulfed him out of nowhere, the urge to run a feral siren singing through his veins, that he knew not how to hide from it; not anymore.

Neil’s hand tightened briefly around his phone before he took it out and curled it around his midsection.

It had taken him two days to realise something that his 12-year-old self would have done in 15 minutes flat.

_Neil Josten was being followed._

\-------------------------------------

The phone woke Neil up that morning.

He squinted at his watch on the bedside table; it read 6:07am. Frowning, he scrabbled around for it, a cold spike of fear twisting his gut when he saw the unlisted number flashing across the screen. Nothing good ever came of picking up calls from unknown numbers, but a combination of common sense and dread told Neil that letting this go would be disastrous.

“Hello,” he ran a hand through his hair and slouched despondently.

Silence. And then, “Mr. Josten, I hope you are well.”

Neil inhaled sharply. He’d recognise that cultured accent anywhere. It sometimes haunted his dreams, dripping with derision and blood. He sat up straight, spine stiff with anticipation.

“Lord Moriyama.”

His heart thundered in his chest. In the four years since their last conversation on the campus of Palmetto State, Neil had had no reason to talk to Ichirou Moriyama. When he had graduated, one of the Moriyama aides had met him outside the dorm and given him a sheaf of documents that had detailed the split of Neil’s future income, and requirements from the Moriyamas that he, Kevin Day and Jean Moreau had to fulfill from time to time. He was also asked to burn the document within the hour.

“I am sure you have noticed my men trying to follow you this past week,” Ichirou continued as though Neil wasn’t there.

_Neil had._

He dragged in a breath through his nose. Relief washed over him, quick and instant before the full implication of the statement broke through his consciousness. Ignoring the flare of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, he responded, “I did. They were being quite obvious.”

A beat passed. Then two. Neil clutched his phone harder, as though it would instantly make him feel somehow better.

When Ichirou replied, his voice echoed the ghost of a laugh. “I see. Not even the best in the business can fool a Wesninski, is it?”

“It takes a lot to fool a Wesninski, Lord Moriyama. I’m sure my father would have told you that,” Neil said, feeling like he was walking a tightrope. Again.

“He did,” Ichirou replied, voice quiet and deadly. And then, “I am calling to collect my first favour, Mr. Josten.”

Neil’s mind blanked out for a moment, scrambling to remember something, anything about favours in their contract.

Ichirou continued, “In addition to 80% of your income, I remember telling you that you owe me three favours – on behalf of Mr. Day and Mr. Moreau – when the time comes. Do you remember or would you need reminding?”

Ichirou’s voice was deceptively mild; the word “ _reminding_ ” bore a hundred different implications, none of them kind. Neil knew from experience and a lifetime of abuse that the mafia had no place for mercy.

“That will not be necessary, Lord Moriyama,” he said, struggling to even his voice out, to make it as smooth as Ichirou’s tone sounded.

“Good. One of my aides will come to fetch you today. Be ready.”

The line shut off and Neil stared at his phone blankly.

He stared at the wall opposite to the bed. Sunlight was beginning to break in, tainting everything in the room slowly.

Neil didn’t move from his spot.

The clock inched past 7, then 8. At 9, his coach called him, asking if he were okay and that he had missed morning practice. Neil shook his head, said the words required to placate his coach, took the day off, and returned to staring at the wall again.

Part of him desperately wanted to call Andrew, part of him wanted to call Kevin and Jean and rail at them about the unfairness of shouldering their responsibilities, part of him wanted to stay in bed till the neighbours broke the door down.

But Neil Josten was a runner.

Neil Josten was an instigator.

Neil Josten was also a Wesninski by birth.

Ichirou’s words from four years ago came back to him.

“Do you know what I will do to you if I think you are wasting my time? Do you know what I will do to anyone you have ever met or spoken to? I will kill everyone who has ever stood by you and I will make each death last a lifetime,” Ichirou had told him on that afternoon in a corner of the Palmetto campus.

Now, Neil shuddered, and threw his phone across the room as a burst of raw anger took hold of him.

\-------------------------------------

In a cavernous room entirely paneled in grey, Ichirou sat, dressed from top to toe in black – a blot on the landscape. A pang went through Neil as he thought of the one other person he knew who dressed the same way.

He had left his phone back in his apartment, along with Andrew’s knives and his mother’s old Glock. He had walked into the headquarters of Ichirou Moriyama’s empire with empty hands and a smile that the capacity to cleave.

“Lord Moriyama,” Neil said, and Ichirou turned to look at him, gaze as cold as he remembered. He cut an impressive figure with his sharp-cut suit and manicured hands.

“Mr. Josten. Apologies for making you wait.”

Neil was wholly sure that it was intentional.

“It doesn’t matter,” Neil said, and Ichirou waved him to a chair across the desk.

“You refused to let my men check you for concealed weaponry.”

It was a statement, not a question, Neil noted.

“I am not here to harm you, Lord Moriyama. There is no need for your men to lay their hands on me.”

Ichirou took a long look at Neil, and looked away, apparently satisfied with what he found.

“One of your father’s former aides is giving us trouble,” he said in his even tone, syllables clipped to within an inch of their lives.

Neil stiffened. Ichirou continued, “The man has been giving us the slip. We figured your presence will put an end to it.”

Neil knew ‘it’ translated to a human life.

“I will not kill, Lord Moriyama,” he offered, voice brooking no argument.

Ichirou turned the full force of his attention on Neil, but he stood his ground.

“I wasn’t aware you had a choice, Mr. Josten.”

Neil looked back steadily, unflinchingly; very aware that a wrong move meant that he would not leave the building alive.

“Look at it this way,” he gestured, and Ichirou’s gaze remained resolutely on his face. “Why would you let loose an amateur into the field? It could result in disaster for the Moriyama name.”

“You seem very concerned about the Moriyama name,” Ichirou rubbed his lower lip with the back of his pinky finger and tilted his head, “Why is that?”

“Because 80% of my earnings goes in furthering your name. I don’t want it to be an exercise in futility,” he retorted, pressing his hands into his lap.

“Touching,” drawled Ichirou, and walked toward the window. “You know what are you are, Mr. Josten?”

Ichirou turned, and leaned against the cool windowpane. Outside night settled, inky, black and dusty. Neil held his breath.

“You’re a liar, that’s what you are.”

Neil gave Ichirou a tight smile. “That’s where your assessment is wrong. I am not a liar.”

Ichirou raised a single eyebrow, and Neil barreled on. “I am a Wesninski.”

“And what does that mean?”

Neil met Ichirou’s stare dead-on. “It means that we get the job done.”

A smirk touched the edge of Ichirou’s lips. “Good.”

He moved closer. “You will be provided with necessary ammunition.”

Neil nodded.

“Talk to Marcus, he’ll explain,” Ichirou said, sinking back into his seat.

Neil nodded again. “When will it be?”

“In a fortnight. We’ll stay in touch.”

Hearing the dismissal, Neil got up. When he reached the door, Ichirou spoke again, “I’d advise you to take off training for a week when you’re called on to do the job.”

This time, Neil turned around fully, feeling the beginnings of his father’s smile stretch across his face. “That won’t be necessary, Lord Moriyama. We get things done much faster.”

Years later, if you asked Neil Josten what he remembered of that meeting, all he would be able to come up with is the sight of Ichirou Moriyama’s black eyes boring into him.

\-------------------------------------

Neil sat in the dark.

His phone screen blinked at him. He clicked it open to find a barrage of texts – some from his teammates, some from the Foxes, some from Andrew – and shut it again. He listlessly looked out the window, watching night dissolve in the early light of dawn.

He hadn’t eaten in a day, he didn’t even know if there was any food in the kitchen.

He hadn’t moved from his bed in 32 hours.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone in over 12 hours.

The last message he had sent Andrew was a ‘hmm’ in response to a picture of Andrew’s cat curled up on his stomach.

Andrew hadn’t pushed.

Neil wondered if he should come clean to Andrew before he dipped his toes in what his boyfriend called mafia shit. Then he remembered Ichirou’s warning that he’d hurt everyone Neil knew in prolonged and violent ways if he failed, and tried to regulate his breathing.

An hour later, Neil Josten snapped. He did the first thing that cleared his head when confusion trapped him in its confines. He ran.

Two hours later, he did the second thing that made him feel better.

“It is 4 in the morning,” Andrew sounded tired. Neil realised with a jolt that it was earlier than he had thought.

“I can call you back later,” he offered, and Andrew scoffed.

“I’m awake. Tell me.”

“How do you know that I have something to say?”

Andrew sighed. “You’re pretty obvious when you want to be.”

Neil smiled – this one his own, small and sweet and soft.

“Also, you’re calling after three days of radio silence. Spill.”

“Did you worry?”

Andrew paused. Neil could almost imagine the expression on his face. _Almost_.

“No.”

“Right,” Neil scoffed.

“I didn’t. I spoke to Matt.”

Neil startled. “You did what?”

“He said you were coming to practice.”

Neil felt a lump in his throat. “I-” he swallowed and paused to drag in a breath. His lungs felt like they were on fire.

“Use your words, Neil.”

“You’re a sap, Minyard. You checked up on me.” This time he _heard_ Andrew roll his eyes.

“Shut up, Josten.”

In that moment, he knew he had to come clean. Problem was, he had no idea how.

“Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

Neil jolted. “Wh-What do you mean?”

“Neil.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Is that a variation of I’m fine because I’m not buying it.”

“Shut up, Andrew.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m fine.”

“Neil.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you. It’s the martyr in you that I don’t trust.”

Neil sighed. Half-truths were better than lies anyway.

“I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“No, shit. You sound terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to call Bee?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Neil.”

Neil had no idea how Andrew managed to make his name sound like a prayer and a threat all at once.

“I’ll call her if it gets worse, okay?”

“Don’t make me come there, Neil.”

“Is that supposed to be threat? Because it isn’t very effective if it means I get to see you.”

“I will hang up on you.”

“You love me,” Neil retorted and froze.

After a beat, Andrew said, “Unfortunately, I do.”

Neil exhaled, smirking slightly.

Getting up, he twitched the blinds at the living room window out of habit and morbid curiosity, and stiffened.

 _6ft2in, charcoal grey suit, navy tie, brown oxford shoes, black wayfarers, one gun strapped to the hip, one more strapped to the left leg, brown sedan, too stiff to look casual._ He filed away the information. His mother would be proud, Neil thought with a twinge of hot regret sluicing through him.

“This is the sixth,” he murmured quietly, forgetting for a moment that he was on the phone.

“What,” came Andrew’s voice, flat and unperturbed. Neil nearly jumped out of his skin.

“The sixth time I’ve run out of milk,” he amended hurriedly, hoping Andrew was unobservant for a change.

On the other end, Andrew sighed. It was an impatient, angry sound. “You’re a terrible liar, Neil,” he said in his quiet way that indicated that he was worried.

Neil had no answer to that. “I know,” he replied quietly.

“Take care of yourself or I will do it for you.”

Neil laughed – a watery sound that held no actual humour – at the way Andrew made it sound like a prayer and a threat all at once.

\-------------------------------------

Marcus placed a set of knives on the kitchen island. Neil eyed them warily.

“I’m assuming you know how to use these,” he said, spreading them out with his gloved hands.

Neil struggled to not flinch. “Did they not teach you to never assume?”

Marcus stopped and looked up at Neil, his gaze calm. “I know you can throw a knife, Josten,” he replied, tilting his chin up, a tad defiantly. “You’ve got quite the reputation.”

“I- What?” Neil fumbled with his cereal, spilling it on the surface in shock, and watched Marcus laugh.

“Do you really not know?”

“I don’t!”

“Bullshit.”

Neil frowned. “What reputation?”

“You wrecked two branches of the mafia while you were still a teenager and came out of it unscathed,” he scoffed, sounding incredulous that Neil wouldn’t acknowledge it.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

Marcus stopped fiddling with the two guns he placed on the table next. “Absolutely. I know a couple of my acquaintances who have your name tattooed on them.”

This time, Neil lets his spoon clatter to the ground. “Yeah, you’re joking. There’s no way that’s true.” He watches as Marcus’s eyebrows reach his hairline.

“Let me tell you this. If at any point of time, you’re in trouble, all you have to do is tell me. I can get about fifty of us who’d do anything for you in a heartbeat.”

Neil gawked unashamedly at him. “Fuck.”

Marcus only chuckled. “Yeah, man. You have quite the fan following.”

Neil rubbed the back of neck and frowned. “That’s touching, but I’ll deal with my shit myself,” he grumbled and Marcus shrugged.

“So, take your pick,” he gestured at the weaponry in front of him.

“I thought we’re going after one man,” he surveyed the table in front of him. “This looks sufficient to take out an army.”

“Clearly, you’ve not fought a war,” Marcus rolled his eyes and then, “Would you mind giving me some. I’m hungry,” he gestured to the cereal.

Neil thought he should be more wary of Marcus’s presence – he was a Moriyama hitman after all – but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to be afraid. He was non-threatening, in a way, and Neil knew that if shit hit the fan, he’d run. He had strapped Andrew’s knives to the inside of his armbands just in case.

“ _Do not trust anyone, Nathaniel, do you understand?_ ” his mother’s voice came back to him in a whispered shout.

Trust was a very subjective thing, he thought to himself as he took out a bowl and spoon for Marcus. There were layers to it, degrees, and a whole swathe of grayscalein between. “ _It’s not easy, mother_ ,” he thought.

Marcus left later, taking the guns with him, leaving six knives behind for Neil. He lifted the heaviest of them, a silver broad blade with an ebony handle and intricate carvings along the edge of the blade, where it was sharpest. 

“ _I wish you could see me now, mother_ ,” he muttered, pushing it back into its sheath and took a deep, shuddering breath.

\-------------------------------------

“I won’t be coming in for a week, Matt,” he sniffed now, trying to make it look like he had a bad head cold.

“Will you be okay, Neil? I mean, I can come over—”

“No. That will not be necessary. I can take care of myself.”

“I am rolling my eyes, just so you know.”

Neil laughed, this time it was a genuine sound. “Matt, I’ll be fine, really. Just tell coach, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. But you will call me if you need anything?”

He sounded so unsure that Neil had no choice but to sigh. “I will, Matt. Stop worrying.”

“I’ll always worry.”

“Now, I’m rolling my eyes.”

Matt laughed. ‘Fine. I’ll let coach know. Text me.”

“Sure.”

Neil got up from the bed and padded over to his closet, yanking it open with more force than necessary, and wondered what the hell one wore for a mafia mission. “Dammit why are there no textbooks for this kind of thing,” he muttered, shoving a bunch of shirts aside.

He picked up a pair of tight black jeans that Andrew had gifted him on a whim, and smiled softly before placing them on the bed. Next, Neil riffled through his clothes until he found a black short-sleeved tshirt that Andrew had left behind, and threw it on top of the jeans. He added a navy jacket to the pile and sat back.

Neil wordlessly pulled on the jeans, the tshirt, and then carefully pulled black armbands up his forearms. He picked up the knives Marcus had given him, sheathing them one by one until he felt sure that they were not visible to the casual eye. He pulled on heavy black boots and looked into the mirror.

His father looked back at him. Neil suppressed a shudder.

“Fuck,” he muttered, fiddling with his phone, contemplating calling Andrew.

But what would he say anyway?

“ _Hello, Andrew. I’m going on a dangerous mission where I might or might not get badly injured. Just letting you know._ ” or “ _Andrew, Ichirou came to collect his first favour._ ” or “ _I might not see you again._ ” Or “ _I remember how you looked the last time I said bye to you. It might probably be the last thing I remember._ ”

He slipped his mother’s old Glock into his jacket, and locked the door behind him.

Marcus looks up from his perch on the car, “Ready, Josten?”

Neil nods. “Let’s go.”

\-------------------------------------

Nathaniel’s smile dipped at the corner – into a smirk – when he saw the blood drain from the face of the man standing in front of him. Sometime in the past six hours, his jacket had come off, leaving him standing in all black, a slash against the grey walls of the house he stood in now.

“You-”

“Me,” he nodded. And then, “You know it’s good manners to invite a guest into your house.”

The man blinked and then frowned.

“I didn’t say you had a choice,” Nathaniel said.

“You’re-”

“I’m pretty sure you know who I am.”

“How?”

Nathaniel pretended to survey his nails, “Ah. I don’t have the time to exchange pleasantries.” He looked up, icy blue eyes meeting brown, “Let me in, or I’ll let myself.”

The man sneered, “I’m not going to let you in, Wesninski.”

Nathaniel smiled, “I think you’re mistaken,” and watched the man shudder.

“Move,” his voice was quiet, but he knew the man would obey anyway.

The man moved, but reached into his jacket. Nathaniel was faster. There was a knife to his throat before he could blink. “I’m going to have to teach you some manners before I leave,” he tutted, false impatience colouring his voice.

The man took a shuddering breath, but let him inside.

“What do you want?”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes, “I want a lot of things. Don’t think you can help me though.”

He let go of his neck and watched the man scramble inside, patting his trousers down.

“if you attempt to contact anyone, you’ll be dead before I say goodbye,” Nathaniel snapped, moving a step forward.

The man frowned, took a step backwards.

Nathaniel moved another step forward.

The man stumbled backwards. “You know, the only thing you have in common with your father is your looks,” he spat.

“That’s very, very high praise,” Nathaniel said, feeling the beginnings of a shit-eating grin stretch his mouth, and absentmindedly rubbed the burn scar on his face. “I never did really like him.”

The man’s back struck a wall and Nathaniel watched, bored, as panic dawned on his face.

“Now, will you sit still till they come?”

“Who’s they?”

Nathaniel huffed. “Stop asking questions you don’t want the answers to.”

He reached two fingers into his armbands, withdrawing two knives.

“Permission to injure?” he muttered into the mic strapped discreetly beneath his collar, and heard his earpiece squawk.

He smiled at the man in front of him. “Do me a favour. Never mention my father to me again.”

He threw the knives.

\-------------------------------------

About roughly a 1,000 miles away Andrew sat, brows knit together, and heard Neil’s phone direct him voicemail. Again. 

“You give me no choice, Neil,” he muttered, and dialed again.

\-------------------------------------

Ichirou surveyed him from the top of his fingers clasped together.

Neil merely looked back.

His turtleneck was slashed open at the shoulder, his knuckles red and raw. He was sure there were a couple of gashes on his neck and left cheek, his knees hurt and his head felt like it would burst. But it wasn’t nothing Neil hadn’t seen before. Nothing a few hours of sleeping and a first aid kit won’t fix.

“27 hours.”

“Yes,” Neil replied. He never knew what to say in front of Ichirou. Never knew what would take him safety and what would ensure certain death.

Ichirou’s gaze didn’t waver.

“The men say he was unconscious by the time they reached the house.”

Neil shrugged in lieu of an answer, and Ichirou finally looked away.

“Explain.”

“I don’t know what to say. He worked himself up into an incoherent frenzy by the time your aides arrived.”

Ichirou hummed in response.

“I gave you a week to accomplish the task.”

“Yes.” Neil hated that it came out sounding more like a question than a statement.

“If your Exy career ever fails you, Mr. Josten, consider a place here.”

Neil looked up, incredulously and then laughed – a short, disbelieving gasp of air.

“You’re joking.”

“I never stoop to such levels,” Ichirou looked out of window and Neil took a moment to breathe.

“I distinctly remember you telling me that you’ll kill me and all those whom I love if I fail to bring in the profits from my Exy career. You said, and I quote you here, that you would balance the red in your ledger with my death and consider it a fair repayment. You, Ichirou Moriyama, youngest heir to helm the Moriyama empire, told me, an 18-year-old college student that I am only worth my Exy career in your eyes and that I will be executed if I didn’t in any way help you profit. So, excuse me for assuming that you speak in jest when you tell me that I have a place in your bloody mafia if I ever fail.”

He sucked in a breath. “Also, bold of you to assume that I will ever fail.”

Ichirou turned from his place near the window and looked at Neil with what looked like faint amusement.

“You have quite the memory Mr. Josten. But I also remember telling you that you are your father's son.”

“So just because I’m the spitting image of Nathan Wesninski, I get an out? That’s fucking unfair.”

“No,” Ichirou said, ice in his voice. “I’m saying you’re more than where you come from. I’m merely reevaluating my assets.”

For the first time in weeks, Neil smiled – sarcastic and biting. “I’ve been bumped to an asset, is it?”

“Certainly.”

“In that case there’s something I’d like to discuss.”

“Yes?”

“I will not take up Kevin and Jean’s favours. You will have to call on them do fulfill their part of the deal. It’s only fair.”

“Fair to whom, Mr. Josten?”

Neil looked up, defiance pumping through his body, “Me.”

\-------------------------------------

He dragged himself up the stairs. It had been three days since Neil had stepped out his door, but he was still alive, still breathing.

Marcus had stitched up most of his wounds but his body still hurt in places he could no longer ignore. He slipped the key into the lock, struggling to open it. Pain lanced through his hand and he winced, pushing back against the feeling.

_One step to the left._

_Feel along the wall for the switch._

_Flick it on._

“How does it feel to be a martyr, Josten?”

Neil swore.

“What the fuck. How-”

“You gave me a key remember? Asked me to call it home and everything,” Andrew stood up from the couch and walked toward a very frozen Neil Josten.

“Hmm,” he touched a finger to Neil’s face, and pushed him against the wall, ignoring Neil’s hiss of pain. “Talk, Josten.”

“I thought I asked you not to worry.”

Andrew hummed. “And I thought I asked you to take care of yourself.”

Neil grimaced. “I was going to-”

“Liar,” Andrew hissed against his lips. “Always a liar, aren’t you Josten. What was it this time?”

Neil only looked at him. “You flew out didn’t you? Matt blabbed didn’t he?”

Andrew pushed off the wall and walked back to the couch. “Three days, Neil. Three fucking days.”

_Three days and no word from you._

_Three days and you could have been dead._

_Three days and I was going mad._

_Three days. I was worried._

The implications hung thick in the pre-dawn air swirling through his living room.

Neil quirked his lips, and got a glare in return for his efforts.

“What is this from?” Andrew pressed his fingers against Neil’s red knuckles.

“I took knives to a gun fight.”

“You’re fucking stupid.”

“Mm,” he said, sidling up to Andrew, resting his head against his shoulder. “I also got a job with the mafia. I think.”

Andrew forcibly tilted his chin up with two fingers and tugged Neil against him. “Next time, don’t wear my turtleneck.”

Neil laughed.

“And tell me before you go.”

He leaned in to kiss Andrew, noticing that his hands hadn’t left his since Neil had stepped into the darkened room.

He might even be okay.

“I want eggs for breakfast.”

“Shut the fuck up, Josten.”


End file.
